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Waylon’s and my gazes meet, and he glances past me, before giving me a small nod. All traces of humor—that rogue smirk of his—gone.
Something heavy and unspoken passes between us.
Working my jaw, all I can do is nod back.
What the fuck else left is there to do?
Laughter and low murmuring follow me as I turn and make for my car, throwing the door open, and climbing inside.
When I slam it shut, Mason doesn’t so much as flinch. If it weren’t for the gentle rise and fall of his back, I’d think he stopped breathing.
“Buckle up,” I say flatly.
He ignores me.
Biting back a curse, I reach over, shoving him back against the seat. His head flops back, and I half expect his eyes to be closed when I lift my gaze to his face, but he’s just staring vacantly up at the ceiling.
Leaning across him, I find the belt, and wrap it around him. He smells like he bathed in a vat of vodka, but at least the sharp tang of that is enough to drown out the less pleasant smells. So long as he keeps his mouth shut.
With a solid click that echoes in the small space, I quickly throw myself back into my seat, and grip the wheel, staring straight ahead.
“I can’t go home like this,” he says in a slow, careful manner, that tells me it took everything in him to speak.
“I know,” is all I say, before turning my keys into the ignition.
His hand comes up the second the engine rumbles to life, and my music kicks on—soft…but loud enough. I beat him to it, jabbing the Power button with my finger. He slumps back against the seat.
Teeth clenched, nostrils flaring, I shift into reverse, and slowly pull out.
The silence is heavy, but not awkward. Just…heavy.
Suffocating.
But at least with him here, I can almost bear it.
On the road, I lower my window, breathing a sigh of relief at the feel of the wind rushing over my face, and the whooshing that replaces the worst of the quiet.
In my periphery, Mason turns to rest his head against the window.
It’s not a long drive, but long enough. Unbearably so.
When I hit the narrow drag I’d raced down and spun on either…an urge to do the same now rises to the surface.
What would he do? I wonder. Would it make him feel better like it does me, if only just for a moment?
Would he be mad, like that time he found me cutting?
My fingers clench around the wheel, and I give my head a little shake.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
My gaze grows unfocused, my mind drifting, chest squeezing.
I hate this.
I fucking hate this.
I take the next turn a little too quick, and my pulse jackknifes—a sort of floaty feeling settling over me. It’s like I’m not here. This isn’t me.
